


A Christmas wish

by Gyoro_and_Ururun



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Crack, Gen, One-Shot, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 10:33:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3974872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gyoro_and_Ururun/pseuds/Gyoro_and_Ururun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a silly little one-shot involving the Master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Christmas wish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saphira (TSC)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Saphira+%28TSC%29).



> So I wrote this just before Christmas and had meant to put it up. I didn't even think to put it up for when my friend read it, I don't know why. I don't usually write one shots and I don't usually write crack!fics, but this was a Secret Santa for my friend Saph from the roleplay site we're on. 
> 
> Enjoy?

The Master did not dream often, but when he did, they were usually meaningful, full of wonder and intellect―he was both smart _and_ humorous, after all―and he would wake up enlightened or filled with brilliant ideas. He had called himself the Master for a reason; he would be the Master of all and the best at everything. There simply was no other alternative. He would also have the Doctor on his knees cowering, wishing he had never tried to stop his ingenuity from flourishing.

However, this dream in particular wasn’t like the others; in fact, he would prefer to call it a _nightmare_. What was happening, you dare to ask? Why, the Master found himself stood inside a TARDIS and it wasn’t his own. No, he had better designs for his own TARDIS and he knew whose tacky-looking TARDIS this was. The Doctor’s. He walked over to a mirror and froze. He looked the same as he always did, appearance-wise, but his _clothes_ were utterly awful.

From the top, he wore a colonial-style panama hat, a long and multi-coloured scarf around his neck, a bow tie in his frilly, old-fashioned shirt. Over the shirt he wore an old-fashioned waistcoat and over that a black frock coat. Inside the pocket, there was a stick of celery. He wore tartan trousers and black and white sneakers. To top it off, he held a horribly colourful umbrella. How had his mind, his _superior_ mind made him wear something from all of the Doctor’s different incarnations, or at least, he thought so. There was so many.

Was he starring as the Doctor in his dream?

He simply _had_ to wake up.

And he did.

The Master woke up calmly and got out of bed, readying himself for his day ahead of him. He would do everything he could to rid himself of that absurd dream. _Him_ as the [i]Doctor[/i] was simply too much. Hundreds of years, even a thousand, more, he had been the Master. A great controller of his own mind. Horrible.

Wait…

He could be the _Doctor._

Many people trusted the Doctor and followed him, to the point where even the Daleks feared him. If people thought he was the Doctor, then he would have free access to _everything_ and it would be so easy to get what he wanted. The universe! They would probably give it to him on a plate because he was a hero.

The best part?

No one knew this face was the Master; anyone who knew him knew his Harold Saxon face, so it was _brilliant_. He set to work, looked up where the Doctor was, who his current companion was (no one! Ha!) and managed to make his laser screwdriver look like the Doctor’s pathetic sonic screwdriver. Everything was set to work. The Master landed his TARDIS inside Clara’s house and he stepped out, walked through her house and found her. Of course, she jumped a little when she saw him.

“Relax, relax…it’s me, the Doctor,” he said.

She relaxed and did that motion humans like to do with a whole-body sigh. Honestly, Earthlings were strange and stupid. “You’ve regenerated again?” Clara asked.

“Yeah, I must have angered a stray Zorgon; it hit me from behind, I never stood a chance. So embarrassing, but at least I didn’t fall down the stairs and get electrocuted by a toaster. What is a toaster, anyway?” He asked, making up some babble.

“Okay. Cool. Well, I’m kind of busy. Is there something you needed?” She asked. “I can’t go with you today.”

“That’s alright, I just came to let you know that I’m still alive. Barely. I thought I’d regenerated without a liver for a moment there,” the Master said, more babble. It was nauseating, but it would be worth it.

“Okay, interesting. Well, if I don’t see you before Christmas, Merry Christmas,” Clara said with a smile. She really was an ugly thing.

“Is it that time of year? I guess, same to you. Bye,” the Master said.

He returned to his TARDIS and travelled to a few other places. Torchwood catch up under the guise of a mini alien invasion, U.N.I.T. under the throngs of false alerts and a job (or lack thereof) well done and, oh, this was rather fun.

Martha Jones.

 _Oh_. Martha _Smith_ -Jones now.

“Wow, a new face? Get you. We humans have to get plastic surgery to get that kind of change,” Martha said.

“In fairness, I kinda died to get this look, at least it wasn’t a toaster,” the Master said, quite bored now actually. This was so mundane.

He was glad to see the back of that woman.

He was especially glad when phase two of the plan started. Cybermen everywhere, in every part of the planet until there was nowhere anyone could run. Not just Cybermen, either. All of the Doctor’s and Earth’s greatest foes that would submit to his will littered the place like the ugly things they were. Honestly, he wouldn’t bother with them if they weren’t useful.

And of course, he descended to Earth as the Doctor always does and he didn’t even need to do _anything_. The scaredy cat, sorry excuse for a head of scientific research in U.N.I.T. gave him the world. He was the President and he liked it. He helped them rid themselves of their pest problem and remained supreme overlord of the Earth. It was just that _easy_. He loved it.

 

* * *

 

He opened his eyes and blinked around.

The Master let out a sigh of frustration.

A dream. It was only a dream.

He stepped out into the street of London and looked around with a scowl.

“I hate Christmas.”


End file.
